Recovering Memories
by Rev48
Summary: An intelligent Harry leaves the Privet Drive a few years after discovering his mother's last words and a cryptic code that sets him on a journey to dig up the past. Where are his memories? What happened on Oct 31st? And why were the Prewetts killed? HPLL
1. An Unlucky Break

**Summary: **Harry is intelligent and yet very young when he discovers a pile of memories and a cryptic code that set him on a journey to discover what really happened on Oct 31st. Where are his memories? Where did Nov 1st go? And why were the Prewetts killed?

**AN**: I've been reading FanFic for a while now and am writing this primarily to give back to the community but also because a rather massive plot bunny gripped my leg by its teeth and wouldn't let go until I had agree to put it on paper.

I'd like to think that this story has more plot than the generic Harry Potter goes back in time story or even the Harry has an evil twin brother story, but of course, what is plot without a means to express it? As this is my first story, I would appreciate it if you could tell me what you think about the writing style – Is the text too dense? Do the characters seem like cardboard cutouts from a comedy of manners? Am I being obscure? What question gives 42 as an answer? That said, lets get this started:

**Recovering Memories**

**Chapter 1: An Unlucky Break**

**Disclaimer**: The very fact that you are reading this here precludes the nonsensical idea that I could ever own the characters mentioned in this text.

* * *

><p>Vernon and Petunia Dursley peered out cautiously around the doorframe and froze in place, staring at the little boy sitting on the sofa ahead of them chattering happily to himself, oblivious to the two slightly trembling pairs of eyes set upon his back as he read to himself from his aunt's cookbook. The three painted an odd tableau, the horse's head slightly above that of the walrus in the doorframe, the child cheerfully turning pages under their frozen gaze. Petunia broke the tension, whirling back into the hallway and pulling at Vernon's hunched over bulk. "Vernon!" she whispered, her voice cracking.<p>

* * *

><p>They had known that this moment would come – this first incident that would mark him and set him apart from them. At night, Petunia would pace the bedroom floor and rail against the boy, his family, her family, and 'that boy' that had taken her sister away from her and into that horrible, freaky world of his. And if Vernon hadn't known any better, he might have supposed that she was lying, or worse yet, jealous, but he had met his sister-in-law once. Suffice it to say, Vernon's countenance had paled so quickly that his ruddy hue blanched within seconds, its color washing out as if it were a shirt passing through months of laundry instantaneously as Lily pulled out her wand, turned a teacup into a rat, made it purple and let it run a few laps around the tabletop before turning it back. Oddly enough, Vernon's diction hadn't returned until a few hours later, at home, when he finally overcame his stutter and was able to pronounce two words: "Unnatural Freaks."<p>

* * *

><p>Of course, with all of their forewarning, they had been able to prepare mentally for the shock of having such a twisted human being residing in their home. However, the only reason why Vernon and Petunia were barely mentally stable enough to deal with the presence of the boy was because of a plan that they had elaborated in the event of such a contingency occurring upon Lily's death in the wizard's war. They were going to treat him well and 'educate' him personally, censoring anything related to not being normal, from fairytales to fiction and dragons to, heavens forbid, magic itself. They would keep him in the house and never let him out to the library or to the school and hide him from the world before his 11th birthday and hope that he never got a letter on heavy cream parchment with a large green H emblazoned on it and that if he did he would reject it.<p>

It was a simple plan at best, but they might have been able to pull it off had it not been for the incident.

"Vernon! The boy is not even four yet! How is this even possible? And Duddikins is so much smarter!" cried Petunia that night, huddled on a corner of the bed clutching the blankets tightly in her hands, "It can't be m-m-…. I … we did everything we could b-but… this is too soon! We've only had him for a few months!"

Pacing up and down on the hardwood floor, Vernon shook his head, "We were idiots to think that something so unnatural could ever live a normal lifestyle. He has to go… or be subdued, somehow."

Petunia slowly broke off from her sobbing and cradled her head in her hands, covering her bony face with quilted patterns. Suddenly she jerked her head back up, hissing vehemently, "_Dudley._"

Vernon jumped, almost tripping as he recovered his footing, "What?"

"He'll corrupt my precious little Dudley-poo!"

He paled, staring blankly ahead as his tiny imagination hurriedly filled in the gaps with the terrible things that Dudley could end up doing when he was older if he was influenced by Harry… Acts of delinquency, beating up kids, in a gang, smoking cigarettes by age 14 and skipping classes regularly… NO! It was too awful to consider.

"We have to get him out of the room now." There were no ifs ands, or buts about it. This was a Dursley ultimatum, and if he had to move a boy the size of a mountain through an opening the size of a needle to fulfill it, he would do so. "We'll move him to… the cupboard, after breakfast tomorrow. If we have to beat this abnormality out of him, we'll do it, but I'm not letting him destroy everything we've worked for so far."

* * *

><p>Harry was just another normal boy, albeit one with a tiny frame, messy black hair, and bright green eyes, and so when he jumped out of his bed that morning and blearily made his way down to breakfast in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes and moving a pace that would have him the world's record holder of the slowest one hundred meters in history, he was just expecting another normal day.<p>

However, when he sat down, the crinkled spread of newspaper in front of him was slowly lowered, gradually revealing the ever-flustered face of Dursley senior eyeing him with suspicion and a hint of distrust painted across his countenance.

"G'morning, Uncle Vernon," mumbled Harry, holding a small hand to his mouth and reaching for a piece of bread with the other. He looked at the fuzzy outline of what he had picked up and pulled it closer for a better view. As the black and white print swam into focus, he heard a distinct gasp from somewhere above him and the newspaper was violently pulled from his hold. Looking up, he saw that his Uncle had, if at all possible, screwed his face up into an even deeper red, his beady eyes darting from Harry to Petunia and then back to the boy.

"Up!" hollered Vernon, grabbing at the child's hand and pulling the boy off of his feet. "You abnormal freak!"

"Un…" Not given any time to think, Harry was very unceremoniously thrust out of the kitchen and into the hallway, glared at by his aunt, shoved into the cupboard under the stairs that was to be his residence for the next few years, and left to silently whimper to himself as he listened to the muffled conversation Vernon and Petunia were holding outside.

"Good riddance. He stays there and we'll knock that freakiness out of him yet."

"Reading at this age…" Petunia hissed, "Why didn't we do this earlier?"

"In a few ye…."

'Reading? …. Reading?' Harry had been so sure that they'd be happy to see him read! Wasn't that the goal? They would try to teach Dudley the ABCs and he'd watch, learning all the while. He'd pick up the children's books that his cousin had thrown away and read in a corner, living happily in his own world.

Footsteps resounded in the closet as Petunia went upstairs to wake up Dudley and Harry tried to stand up in his new living space. A sudden short collision with the ceiling on the lower end of the room quickly informed him that he'd been deprived of that privilege. Rubbing his head, he fumbled for the light switch to see just how much space he had.

In some cases the phrase 'Ignorance is bliss' is completely justified. However, Harry must have had a tremendous amount of luck, as the cupboard wasn't half bad. Sure, the roof was slanted , there was barely enough space for him to stand up straight at its highest point, the corners were riddled by cobwebs, and the entire room smelled of mothballs and cleaning supplies, but there was a dusty stack of boxes covering one of the walls that attracted his attention.

Lifting one of the top boxes into his lap, Harry pried the lid open and peered at the photo lying on the pile of folders. A faded field of browning grass enveloped two laughing girls and the names Lily and Petunia were scrawled on the bottom in black pen along with the year. Carefully, he turned the paper over, and read on the back in the same handwriting,

_Tuney, I found this among my old papers and I wanted you to have a copy for old time's sake. Hope you're doing well. Ever your loving sister, Lily._

After turning the photo over and staring at his mother for a good minute, he moved back to the rest of the box. Pulling out a thick green folder, he wiped off some dust and laid it on the floor in front of him, opening it to reveal a small packet of unopened letters tied together with a rubber band. Curious, he pulled out the top one and pried it open with his fingers.

_Dear Tuney,_

_Thank you so much for coming to visit and letting us meet your husband. I do hope that I didn't scare him too much. I know that magic is very hard for muggles to accept, but I thought that it would be for the best if Vernon knew as well, especially after you had told him so much already._

Magic? Muggles? Harry stopped reading, and paused to consider. What did 'magic' mean? He had heard Dudley mention it sometime or other – usually in relation to his super hero action figures. Maybe he could ask Aunt Petunia? Then again, if his aunt had left these here, unopened, maybe she didn't want to have anything with his mother. She probably hadn't even remembered that these papers were here and probably would have taken them out if he hadn't 'moved in' on such a short notice. So then what was magic? Some sort of super power? Did he have it? Could he make the door purple, books appear, and little toy soldiers move just by waving his hand? He decided to save these experiments for later and turned back to his paper.

_As I've told you before, I've been working in what you could call a research department for the Ministry, a division called the Department of Mysteries. We're really not supposed to talk about our job, but Tuney, I'm scared. Just this morning, Gideon and Fabian Prewett were found dead in the department and I don't even think it was Voldemort. I… I found them, Tuney. They were just lying there, both of them cold, on the black marbled floor and their eyes were red, almost to the point of bleeding. It wasn't natural, Tuney, believe me. No magic kills like that – it's almost like a Basilisk stare but that's not possible, right? Gideon had a crumpled paper in his hand and I took it from him without thinking – it had one phrase on it – 113-71b. I shouldn't have taken it, but I wasn't thinking and now… well now I need to know what it means._

_At this point I would actually be relieved if it were Him, Tuney, but I think the murderer works with me and I don't know what I can do about it. I left early today, and I didn't even tell James, because I don't think this information would be safe with a wizard. I'm going to try to find out what I can about this phrase and see if I can dig up some records that might contain it. If something happens to you or me because of this, Tuney, quickly contact James. I know that you don't want to associate with us, but this could be crucial._

_Your loving sister,_

_Lily_

Harry's head was spinning. What was the Ministry? And the Department of Mysteries? Who was Voldemort? Who was and why would anyone be afraid of _'Him'_? Prewett? Bloody eyes? A Basilisk? James was his father, but why would Lily not tell him anything? He set his questions aside and resolved to go through the rest of the pile. Pulling out the next letter he read:

_Dear Tuney,_

_Thank you so much for coming to visit and letting us meet your husband. I do hope that I didn't scare him too much. I know that magic is very hard for muggles to accept, but I …._

Harry paused, shocked and put the letter down to the first. Sure enough, both continued in the same manner.

_…thought that it would be for the best if Vernon knew as well, especially after you had told him so much already._

However, after this point, the letters diverged:

_I need your help, Tuney. Yesterday two of my colleagues in the Ministry's Department of Magic, which I've told you about before, died in a raid in Diagon Alley, the wizarding district in London. And yet I think I remember Fabian telling me two days ago that he would be working on our joint project in altering and enhancing protection charms for the whole week. The weirdest part, however, is that I don't know what I did yesterday. I can see myself working but I don't know exactly what work I did and I can't actually visualize my documents. You know I have a near perfect memory, Tuney, but I think someone tampered with my memories of yesterday. I'm out on a limb, trying to find out whether I'm just imagining things or not, but if by any chance I wrote you a letter or called you yesterday please write back. Anything would help._

_Love,_

_Lily_

* * *

><p>Harry had gone through each of the letters, slowly working through the words, reading about his birth, the deaths of the Bones and the McKinnon families, his first words, Albus Dumbledore and a secret organization called the Order of the Phoenix, the training broom and the first steps that he had ever taken, the Order, and finally, with a letter dated October 23rd, 1981, something which he did not expect.<p>

_Dear Tuney,_

_This will probably be my last letter for a while. As you know, Voldemort has been attacking several families that have muggle connections or are fighting back against him. Dumbledore told us that we may be his next targets because of a prophecy that links little Harry to Voldemort. Under Albus' advice, we are going to go into hiding under a spell that will make our house completely invisible and impossible to find. If you find yourself threatened in any way by wizards, contact Selena Lovegood, one of my friends from work. She will know how to contact me and can pass on any messages. If it's urgent, though, send a mail to Peter Pettigrew, who will hold the secret of our location. Their addresses and contact information are enclosed. If anything happens, Tuney, know that I wish that I could have spoken to you in person these past three years._

_Your ever loving sister,_

_Lily_

Harry silently set the last letter down on the pile that he had made. Of course his parents hadn't died in a car crash. Petunia wouldn't have told him about a magical killer – she had cut herself off completely from her sister and that culture almost completely – these untouched letters were the definitive proof of that.

But if his parents had died to this Voldemort, how had he survived? He tried to remember the day, but to no avail. It was as if his mind was blank before that time, which was odd, because he definitely could remember a huge man on a flying motorcycle. Maybe he had protected him? And he was sleeping while Voldemort was killed? It was implausible, but maybe this man was much more powerful than Voldemort. Maybe something else in the box would tell him what had happened?

Going through the folders in the box, Harry realized that they were all letters and notes, written regularly since 1971, when, as he read avidly, Lily had been chosen to go to a boarding school for magic called Hogwarts. He sat there reading for hours, drinking in each detail, reading about spells ranging from the simple _Wingardium Leviosa _to different ways to hex opponents in a duel. He laughed at Lily's descriptions of the Marauder's pranks, was puzzled by her rants against James Potter in particular, and learned all about the friendly rivalry between his mother and Severus Snape in Potions. When he was done, he curled up contentedly on the dusty floor clutching the old photograph of the sisters playing in the field and fell asleep, his stomach growling all the while.

* * *

><p>He was woken up later that day by someone dragging a rather bulky object down the stairs. Quickly storing all of the letters in their box, he hid the only connection he had left to his mother just as Petunia opened the cupboard door and peered in. Once she had ascertained that he was still alive, disregarding the particularly nasty cut that decorated his forehead from when he was rammed into the cupboard and hit the doorframe, she started to push a small, dilapidated mattress into the little living space Harry had.<p>

"There. You'll be living here from now on, boy," she spat, "that'll teach you, freak." She held out a small sandwich and a banana to him, "That's your food for today. Be grateful you have it."

"Aunt Petunia…" he munched on his sandwich and put on the most innocent face he could muster, "Do you think magic exists?"

A crash was heard at the end of the stairs, where Vernon had tripped upon his descent, Petunia flinched, and silence pervaded the house for several seconds.

Breaking the mood, Petunia's hand whipped across Harry's face with a crack, leaving a solid red block of stinging flesh in its wake. She slammed the door shut, hitting Harry, and locked it with a bolt on the outside.

"Grounded in the cupboard for a week, boy," yelled Vernon at the closed cupboard, "and never say that word in this house again!"

Maybe that hadn't been a good idea, Harry thought, holding his cheek. But he had been furious, annoyed that his aunt had ignored his mother's letters for so long, and he had needed to let his anger out. If teasing his aunt in the worst way possible was his way to de-stress, then he would go ahead and do it.

Turning back to the stacks of boxes in his new room, he bit another piece of his sandwich off and started to read.

Harry soon found that the collection of papers and books that the Dursleys had kept stored in the cupboard followed two trends – the documents were either embarrassing and meant to be forgotten, like Petunia's connection with magic and abnormal freaks and Vernon's grades in the university, where he had supposedly followed a business curriculum, but actually failed most of his classes. The majority of the documents, however, were of the intellectual sort. Harry found all of Vernon's notes for his business classes (copies from others bought for a nominal price), math books on algebra, trigonometry, and calculus, a few books from British literature such as _1984, Paradise Lost, _and _Oliver Twist_, a series of small books on mechanics and engineering, a stack of newspapers from 1980-81, and a few pamphlets detailing different drills produced at Grunnings and the workings of some assembly machines.

Although the last few papers didn't seem very interesting to Harry, maybe he would be able to slowly work through the easiest books and newspaper articles and maybe even try to do some of that magic that his mother described in her letters.

With his work cut out for him, maybe being locked in the cupboard for a week didn't seem so bad, thought Harry – as long as they remembered to bring him food, he wouldn't be bored at all. It was ironic that he had found so much to read in a house where the most complicated readings that he could find were Petunia's cookbooks and some of her magazines, but he wasn't going to ponder the issue. After all, he had a whole week to work through the _Financial Times, _and who knew; maybe he would find a reference to Voldemort or uncover the meaning of those mysterious numbers. Maybe they referred to a volume and issue of a newspaper, he mused, returning to his readings with renewed fervor.


	2. Momentum

**AN: **One thing that I do want to note is that I am not a fan of flashbacks at all. I find that they disrupt the continuity and flow of a story. Although they are used quite liberally in fanfiction, one would be hard pressed to find a respected novel in a library that actually used the heading _*Flashback_*. Due to this belief, my time skips are written in a different tense which should be pretty much self-evident, but as the author it becomes very hard to spot flow errors so please tell me if I need to clear up certain passages by means of a review.

This chapter is much more text heavy than the last as it details Harry's growth and discoveries. Once we move on from these early years we'll get much more character interaction, lots of dialogue, and action as well as some unraveling of secrets. As the story progresses, I hope to publish approximately one to two chapters per week (maybe more around the holidays).

Well, that was long. Enjoy:

**Recovering Memories**

**Chapter 2: Momentum**

****Disclaimer: ****Well, I did go to the city hall a few weeks back to see if I could find any wills or connections to the Rowling family which would entitle me to Jo's books, characters, and fortune, but I think that the fact that neither my family nor hers is from here prevented me from finding anything. As it is, I have to content myself with writing here about characters that are in no way mine. It's kind of like playing with little tin soldiers?

* * *

><p>A resonant banging noise rudely awakened Harry, who bolted up, banged his head against the ceiling, crumpled once more, and turned over onto his side, softly groaning and clutching his head. Dudley ran down the stairs after stomping on the steps above Harry's cupboard a few more times for good measure, picked up the mail, and made his way to the kitchen. Harry turned over again.<p>

"Up, boy!" screeched his aunt through the grating in the door, "You're not getting any food if you're not in the kitchen in a minute!"

Clutching his forehead, Harry rolled over, nudged the door, pushed it, and finally, putting his back to it, found that it didn't give. Petunia must have forgotten to slide the lock. He sat in the darkness of the cupboard, his back pressed against the door, his legs tangled in his sheets, looking at the shafts of morning sunlight that flooded the hallway and poked through the metal grate and chipped paint of the door at the papers strewn across the floor, the little tin soldiers huddled in a dusty corner, and the photo of his mother and aunt stuck on the wall by a thumbtack that his foot had graciously found for him in the middle of one night.

"Out!"

Petunia slid the latch, popped open the door, and watched impassively as he tumbled backwards out of the closet, his backrest removed. Poking his side once with her shoe, she left him lying spread-eagled on the carpet and headed out to cook breakfast.

Harry stared blankly at the ceiling for several seconds before he realized that impending doom was approaching in the form of his bulky cousin unless he reacted soon and hastily picked himself up from the ground, pulling his rather scruffy shirt down in an attempt to remove the wrinkles before he sat down in front of his greatest critic.

"What'd you do with your hair boy? If we didn't know where you lived, I'd have said you lived in a tree from the bird's nest you've got up there!" Vernon chuckled to himself at his latest and most humorous, if he could say so himself, insult to Harry yet. He raised his paper again, hiding his thick walrus mustache behind bars of fine black print as he muttered to himself about the recently rising prices of iron and steel alloys.

Harry ducked his head down and silently chewed on his toast as Petunia walked around the table rattling of the latest activities that their neighbors had indulged in and fussing over Dudley's food, hair, and clothing before settling down and sitting next to her husband and practicing her neighborhood espionage skills on her husband's newspaper.

Uncle Vernon had never been so far off, Harry mused, in some respects, with his latest jibe at him. He stood up, carried the dishes over to the sink, and walked over to his cupboard. Propping the door open, he considered his traits. If anything, he was a mole, he decided. He was almost legally blind, short, crawled around his closet most of the time, and, he thought, closing the door and pushing away the wooden plank and newspapers to reveal a circular opening in the wooden floor, he did hide out under the house whenever he wasn't doing chores.

* * *

><p>The Den had started with a desperate need to hide the books and papers that Harry had found in the cupboard before Petunia, who had gotten into her head the idea that she was going to clean his room to make sure that he wouldn't unwittingly carry spiders and spread dust all over the house. It made sense, as those two incidents hadn't gone over too well, especially with Petunia almost falling out of a second floor window from the shock of having a spider climb halfway up to her hip, but as Harry sat and let his sight rove and explore the exciting three square meters of space that made up his closet, he couldn't see a way out of his dilemma.<p>

He would probably have to rely on his memory to remember those letters now, he had sighed, closing his eyes and visualizing the stack of precious letters in front of him as they twisted and burnt to a crisp in the fireplace.

A thudding noise had jolted him from his not-so-pleasant reverie and he was shocked to see the stack of boxes collapse as its bottommost members disappeared into a previously non-existent hole. Puzzled, he had cautiously turned himself onto his belly and poked his head into the aperture to examine the cavity underground.

* * *

><p>A long five years after his first case of accidental case of magic and the renovation of the meter-high crawl space between floor and foundation under his closet, an recently turned ten year-old Harry slid down into his Den. It was all at once a study space, lab, secret hideout, refrigerator, and a great place to take a nap and avoid Petunia's cries for chores when he didn't feel like trekking across the neighborhood. He'd even been able to use it as an indoor pool once after it had stopped pouring for three days straight. Although he had had fun playing with the somewhat broken plastic boats he had surreptitiously salvaged from one of Dudley's birthdays, cleaning the Den afterwards and removing the humidity and beginnings of mold hadn't been nearly as enjoyable.<p>

* * *

><p>At first, all Harry had done was move everything to the crawl space as quickly as he could before Petunia came in. After the whirlwind had passed through his room, leaving everything worse than it was and doing absolutely nothing about the mothballs smell, Harry had pulled out the letters once more to see if he could find any more information about what he thought had been accidental magic.<p>

Going through the letters, two in particular had caught his eye; one from the beginning of Lily's second year at Hogwarts, and another from her sixth year.

_Dear Tuney,_

_The oddest thing happened to me the other day. I was sitting on my bed at night and had to do some studying, when reaching over for my book it simply jumped into my hand. Now I know that since its Hogwarts it isn't that unexpected, but I thought that I'd controlled my accidental magic last year. It wasn't even the only incident. I shattered the mirror in the bathroom a few days ago when I was feeling slightly violent and violet at the same time, looking at myself with purple hair courtesy of the Gryffindor boys. I went to see the Headmaster about this and he told me that the best way to control accidental magic is by organizing one's mind. The book that he gave me is really interesting, Tuney! It's called _Occlumency: Organizing and Defending One's Mind _and I think that you don't even need magic to practice what it says. Maybe you can try some exercises and tell me how they go? First of all, you need to…_

Quickly reading over the instructions, Harry had perked up quite a bit. Pulling out a sheet of blank paper from one of his boxes, he had quickly written down the successive steps of Occlumency to practice later. Maybe this could help him memorize and learn faster as well.

_… For some reason everything seems easier now than it did last year, Tuney. All of my spells tire me out just as much, but it's just so much easier to learn new things, as if my mind stores them away in numbered shelves – if I add Occlumency to this, I'll be able to read hundreds of pages a week! My explanation for this is that I must have undergone a change in my magical core over the summer. It would definitely explain my difficulty in containing accidental magic…_

Harry had left Lily to ramble on about McGonagall and Slughorn's essays and her latest classes, searching for a letter on wandless spell casting that he clearly remembered due to its resemblance to a treatise more than a conversational monologue.

_Dear Tuney,_

_NEWT classes are so much more fun than the regular ones, which makes me wonder why the professors don't group everyone by ability. The other day, we were finally allowed to work on the Draught of Living Death, and although I am confused as to why it's on the curriculum, I did enjoy it._

_Anyways, I was speaking to the Headmaster the other day, and he actually suggested that I try wandless magic! I've told you all about my work in mastering silent casting, of course, but this is on a completely different level. Although he did say that I'd probably have a strong aptitude for this due to my accidental magic outbursts four years ago and my Occlumency skills, I'm nervous about trying this, so I'll first write down what I know here to inform you and help myself get ready to try wandless._

_First of all, the concept behind wandless casting is that the witch should theoretically be able to cast any sort of spell with the proper focus as the magical reserves are within the body. Although a wand does amplify power, its most important function is to serve as a connection between the person and their magical core. The reason why the wand is so specific to the wizard is because it must be able to access different parts of the wizard at the same time. In fact, although wands do amplify power, it is theorized that a wandless user will, with practice, be able to create that same connection between their will and magic and refine to a far greater extent than wands can._

_Secondly, the practice of wandless magic, which by the way is extremely rare, involves the use of similar exercises to those in Occlumency to forge the connection between the user and her magical core. The witch must meditate and attempt to access the memories in the back of her mind in the same way that an Occlumency practitioner clears her mind of stray thoughts. The goal for the wandless exercise, however, is not to access stray memories, but to access memories of accidental and memorize the magical signature of their magic. Accidental magic must be used, because the magical signature changes when a wand is superimposed over the magical core of a person._

_(I know that this sounds convoluted, but I just tried this, Tuney, and I remembered that time when we were in the field and I summoned those flowers to me? Do you remember that? I still have a photo of us in the field that day, if you want to see it.)_

_The third step in the creation of the connection is to then try to 'pull' the magic from yourself following the magical signature you obtained. This is the hardest step, but being able to feel the signature is crucial to the step. Most practiced magic users are able to feel, to a certain extent, the magic around them. However, only one of these pulses is the actual signature that they can modify and use constantly, they carry only one magical signature around (Technically it is possible to leech off of magical objects for power, and this is an accepted technique among ward breakers for brute-forcing protections, but most magical objects are harmful to pull magic off of because of built-in protections)._

_Finally, once the magic has been pulled and you can feel the connection to your core, with utmost concentration a witch can start to use this magic for spells. This can be dangerous as a slip up in focus could give a completely different and potentially devastating result, but with practice, wandless magic can theoretically become much more effective than magic with a wand._

_Well, that's it! I really hope that that I didn't bore you to death but it's all terribly exciting to me. Dumbledore, Voldemort, and a relatively obscure society of wizards in continental Europe called _Summum Nexu _are the only living wizards that I know of that can actually perform wandless! Now that I've gone over the steps I think that I'm going to go and try to practice in one of the empty classrooms in the third floor (although why we have so many classrooms when we only have fourteen teachers in the entire school escapes me….)._

_See you in a few weeks for Christmas!_

_Your sister,_

_Lily_

Immediately upon reading the letters, Harry had fallen into a meditative trance, or, in other words, a fantastic daydream, in which he envisioned himself immediately performing wandless magic, expanding his cupboard to become bigger than his older room, summoning all sorts of food, books, and toys to enjoy, and finally taking out his revenge on his cousin by turning him into a bouncing ball and kicking him around the house a bit.

The Gods had not meant it so.

A few hours after starting his meditation, he had realized that maybe his forecast was somewhat off... It would take a little bit more than a few weeks to master Occlumency, not to mention wandless magic.

* * *

><p>He had finally been able to access his magical signature and pull magic from it more than four years later, at the turn of his ninth birthday, finally producing a small slightly glowing ball of light reminiscent of a <em>Lumos<em> spell that had him bouncing - and hitting his head on the ceiling - with glee.

After months of being able to completely organize his mind into shelves and boxes filled with memories, a task which was made easier to him by his young age, small amount of memories, and relatively repetitive daily life, he had finally been able to willingly access his magic! Although the spell was supposed to be one of the easiest to maintain wandlessly, requiring much less concentration and refinement than the average as it was, in effect, simply raw power on Harry's part, Harry couldn't have been more ecstatic.

From there, he had been able to slowly progress in a systematic rediscovery of some of the first year curriculum including levitation spells, some color changing spells and charms work, and had even reworked basic inanimate transfiguration with wandless magic. His favorite spell however, by the time his tenth birthday had rolled around, was a handy size and weight reducing spell which, upon learning, he had promptly used on all of the boxes and books, as he would have been cramped for space in the cupboard and Den even with the two 'rooms' vacated.

In fact, Harry had progressed more in the muggle sciences than in his study of magic in the past years. Vernon's notes and the engineering pamphlets were too complex and specific for him to delve into, but as his Occlumency skills had progressed and his fruitless wandless attempts left him with a lack of things to study, he had slowly started to go through some of the easier math books and literature and had read all of the newspapers carefully, noting any odd incidents that might have been related to the magical war going on at the time. One story even reported a sudden chill descending over central London before a 'terrorist' bombing occurred in a large department store, killing twelve and injuring many more. Harry almost felt sorry for the teams involved in the cover-up of such incidents. Sure, he had read about the spell that erased people's memories from their minds, but how could a dozen operatives hope to change the memories of the hundreds of people that must have felt the dementors fly by?

* * *

><p>Coupled with his study of Occlumency and his mother's last few letters, it was this article that truly sparked Harry's fascination with mind magic and memory. In his opinion, the <em>Obliviation<em> spell was a joke compared with what a strong magician ought to be able to do.

A good memory erasure would be almost impossible to actually perform, he theorized, as the replacement memory had to not only fit in with the target's memories from the days before and after the incident but also emulate the target's typical thoughts, actions, and emotions, something that would be quite hard for someone with no knowledge of the person. In fact, from Lily's constant complaints about the alarming lack of practical knowledge that wizarding folk had about muggles, Harry could tell that a wizard replacing a muggle's memories would have almost absolutely no idea what to do with the information in his target's brain.

A near perfect memory erasure, however difficult, would be one of the most terrible tricks that a magician could pull on a person, as it could potentially change them completely, destroy their opinions of others, and manipulate them into doing things that they wouldn't have even considered before.

A perfect memory erasure and replacement should be illegal. In fact, all mind techniques should be illegal – Lily had cited the three Unforgivable curses in her letters but in Harry's mind the only one that was truly frightening was the _Imperio_ curse as the other two were just shortcuts for what one could do in so many other ways using assorted spells like cutting curse and even accomplish without magic.

In fact, he was looking forward to the day when he finally got his hands on a Legilimency book. Then people all over the world would fear him as his evil mastermind plot came to fruition!

Muahahaha—Harry cut off the evil laughter and paused, pensively – maybe he should have come up with the evil plot before scaring every last beetle in his cupboard – but after all, it was too troublesome to do so. He'd leave the evil mastermind business to other people.

* * *

><p>This fascination with mind magic had led him to mull over Lily's last few letters over and over again. The repeated letter that was clear evidence of a poorly cast memory charm convinced him that there had to be at least one other erasure in her short career in the Department of Mysteries, or DoM as she affectionately called it.<p>

So far, however, he had only turned up a few possible instances, including one deceivingly promising letter from Lily's seventh year in which she described waking up in the morning with a hazy knowledge of what had happened the night before only to mention that Gryffindor had just beaten Slytherin 270 to 50 and dash Harry's hopes.

In fact, his best bet lay with the first letter from her second year in which she described her accidental magic outbursts. It was certainly odd that she'd only noticed them upon arriving at Hogwarts if the change had been due to gradual growth. This led Harry to the chilling inference that part of her memory might have been rewritten just before she had headed out to Hogwarts. Whether her accidental magic was part of the reason why she had been obliviated or whether it was simply an unrelated way to tell that part of her summer was missing, Harry had no clue, but he was determined to find out when he left the Dursleys'.

* * *

><p>And now, almost seven years since first coming to live in his little cave system, he realized that there was nothing to gain from staying any longer in his cupboard. He had gone through the letters and learned most of the practical spells from his mother's notes, ignoring the useless spells like the minor jinxes that Hogwarts taught in DADA and focusing on transfiguration and charms work. He even thought that he might be able hold his own in a wizard's duel. Well... maybe not yet — although his<em>P<em>_rotego_ was his pride and joy, he still hadn't mastered the technique of shooting beams of magic out of his hands, and thus most long range dueling techniques were out of his grasp, including the quintessential _Expelliarmus_ spell.

He was completely out of reading material as well. The newspapers hadn't been too informative, and the few books he had, although interesting and funny, had already been read over and over again. _Paradise Lost _had been deemed boring, he had read _1984_ at least thirty times in the past two years and still didn't understand parts of it, and although he did like Dickens, Victorian England was getting to be somewhat old to him.

He had sneaked a tome of short stories by P.G. Wodehouse into the closet, concluding that Uncle Vernon wouldn't miss the book as he lived on local news reports and sports shows for intellectual sustenance, but his collection hadn't grown but much otherwise. The only other noteworthy text in the house, the cookbook had disappeared as well when Harry had started cooking, something which might not have been a good idea, as the blame was pinned on him immediately.

Muttering about moles under his breath, he started to pack, shrinking his carefully labeled and annotated spell notebooks and placing them into a few transfigured matchboxes. He carefully rolled up his sheets, packed the few old shirts and remains of Dudley's old clothing into his transfigured back pack, vanished the shelving that he'd installed, looking around wistfully for one last time, and finally pulled himself out of the Den. One sticking charm later to hold down the plank covering his hole, and Harry was finally ready to confront the Dursleys.

Armed with several matchboxes, a rucksack, and an overlarge striped sweater courtesy of Dudley Dursley, Harry exited the cupboard only to step in the way of Dudley as he left the kitchen with crumbs all over his face.

"Out of my way." Harry was pushed aside like a rag doll as Dudley barreled past him and started up the stairs.

"You're weeding the garden today, boy," Petunia's shrill voice slipped through the crack between the door and the wall, "Get to it. You won't get lunch if you don't finish."

"No."

Dudley paused his ascent to look down at Harry with a vacant and befuddled stare and then shook his head as if to dispel his hallucination.

"What did you say, boy?" Petunia hissed menacingly.

"I'm leaving now. I've had enough, and you wouldn't be able to stop me even if you wanted to."

Vernon rounded the corner furiously, completely ready to whale Harry to the point of unconsciousness, "Someone here doesn't understand does h—"

Harry smirked as Uncle Vernon slumped to the ground, knocked out from hitting the blue dome that had suddenly appeared between the two of them. "And…. K.O. I have to say, you're completely right, Uncle Vernon. Someone here didn't understand, but now that you've learnt, maybe you'll be able to tell when I'm being serious in the future?"

Defying the limits of musculature, Dudley's jaw dropped open even farther as he watched dumbly as his father collapsed below him.

Harry looked up at Petunia, who was now standing in the hallway, openly gawking at the sight of her husband sprawled on the carpet in the same position that Harry had been in only half an hour ago.

"Anyways," he started, rubbing the nape of his neck, "I'm going, and you're welcome."

He sent a parting spell, opened the front door and stepped outside. Closing the door to the sight of a statue vaguely resembling his aunt standing above the fallen body of his uncle and his cousin clutching his behind and squealing like a pig for slaughter, Harry turned away from the house with a smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. He had been starving for this moment.

Repositioning his backpack on his shoulders, Harry walked over to the street, stuck out his hand in front of him, and waited, hailing an invisible taxi.

Nothing.

Harry pulled some magic into his hand and flagged down another invisible cab.

Apart from an ear-piercing shriek splitting the air behind him as Petunia snapped out of her stupor and checked on Dudley, the street was silent.

Of course it wasn't going to be that easy, thought Harry as he pulled back his hand.

He turned into the street and started to walk down Privet Drive, hoping never to return again.

Maybe he could catch the Knight Bus in Diagon Alley. After all, he did have some shopping to do before he searched for Selena Lovegood.


	3. Shunted Around

**Recovering Memories**

**Chapter 3. Shunted Around**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters, but have a dastardly plan to obtain the copyright license. It is: ... I will not reveal it to you or else you will implement it first.

* * *

><p>Harry stood at the corner of Privet Drive with Wisteria, slowly coming to the realization that he had absolutely no idea as to how he was going to get to central London. He'd hardly ever been farther than the library or the elementary school, and even worse, he hadn't thought to take any money with him. Sighing, he resigned himself and made to turn back to…<p>

"Harry?"

Harry jumped at the voice behind him and almost tripped over the large grey cat that had sneakily wormed its way through his ankles. Twisting sharply, Harry was shocked to find himself face to face with, "Mrs. Figg?" Harry blurted out without a second thought.

"Can I help you Harry? I heard Petunia and I was wondering if maybe I could…"

"No, no, no," Harry said rapidly, hoping to halt her before she suggested anything to do with cats. "I've just had a bit of a fight with my relatives and I need to go somewhere now. Goodbye, Mrs. Figg."

He pivoted hastily and made to leave. He'd have to disguise himself somehow, he realized, or else Petunia would be able to find him, enlisting the help of the police with a sob story or one of those lies about…

"Diagon Alley, perhaps?"

This time around, Harry was so thoroughly shocked that his feet never left the floor. Instead, he stood with his back facing the tiny old lady who, before this moment, he had discounted as just another harmless member of the completely normal Privet Drive community. Paling within instants, he desperately prayed that the ground would swallow him up and—

"You're trying to get to Diagon Alley, right? Do you need my help?" The old lady rambled on, "I could probably get the Knight Bus for you, you know. I can't really do anything, but I could dig out my husband's wand and maybe we could give that a try? I daresay I saw you try without a wand –very impressive, and maybe we could give Oswald's a wave and then if not…"

"S-sorry? You're a witch?" Harry stuttered, turning slowly and not quite processing what he was hearing. Mrs. Figg, the woman cared about her cats as if they were her children, the old lady that would walk around in a housecoat and checkered slippers, the woman who would take him in when the Dursleys were out and who droned on and on about Snowy and Mr. Tibbles for hours on end in an endeavor to make him fall asleep—knew about magic?

"Oh of course, I'm so sorry, Harry, I didn't realize. I am a squib, which means that I come from a magic family but can't do magic but Oswald was very talented, you know. He worked at the Ministry and fought against Voldemort in the war and we were even members of the Order, but then a few years back he …" Harry followed Mrs. Figg back silently as they retraced their path and entered her house.

Harry stood in the living room and looked around as his host headed upstairs mumbling something about catnip and husbands that he didn't really want to hear. He'd been here several times before, on several of the Dursley's vacations and Dudley's birthdays, but he knew that it didn't look quite the same. Although the walls were still plastered with pictures of Mrs. Figg's cats that almost completely covered up the white wash and the smell of cabbage still pervaded the living room, magical culture was also present in the house. A few stacks of books with moving pictures on their covers were lying on a trunk in the corner, the radio didn't seem to follow norm either as it announced Celestina Warbeck, the Singing Sorceress, singing "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me", and some of the cat pictures were now moving, their whiskers and tails moving to the rhythm of the music.

"Mrs. Figg –um— I was wondering – why did you hide all of this from me? Whenever I came over all of the magical stuff was gone and all you did was talk about cats."

"What did you say about the cats, dear?" Mrs. Figg asked, her voice drifting down the staircase, "they're such dears to have around and behave perfectly – it's just like having little children, only better. You know, Mr. Tibbles is a mix of Kneazle and—Oh! Here it is!"

Harry sighed with relief as the old lady but her customary lecture on cats short and made her way down the stairs, presenting him with a short and dusty stick of mahogany wood. "Thank you Mrs. Figg," Harry said, grasping the handle of the wand and blowing some of the dust off of it. "I don't feel any different, Mrs. Figg, is that normal?"

"Well, I've been told that the wand reacts to the wizard when he picks it up usually, but there doesn't seem to be anything happening now," she commented, puzzled, "maybe you're not letting it access your magic?"

"Of course, that's it!" Harry exclaimed, relieved to find an explanation, "I've made a connection with my magic already, so the wand doesn't do anything for me. It's just another connector, like a piece of piping, and when flow of magic has already been channeled through another pathway, it doesn't react at all."

"A connection with magic?" Mrs. Figg asked, wide-eyed, "isn't that very hard to accomplish?"

"Yeah," answered Harry absentmindedly, "but now we have to see whether this overrated stick of wood can help us at all."

They both headed out of the cabbage and cat infested living room and, reaching the sidewalk, Harry pulled out the wand and waved it in front of him. A triple-decker bus painted an awful purple color popped out of nowhere, skidding to a halt in front of a very startled Harry Potter and Arabella Figg as the doors snapped open.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Figg, thanks for helping me," Harry turned to his neighbor and returning the wand, "I don't know what I would've done without your help."

"Don't worry about it, Harry. It was a pleasure helping you."

Harry turned and started towards the bus, only to pause halfway up the steps, "Wait, Mrs. Figg, why did you help me out just now?"

"Dumbledore asked me to keep an eye on you," she replied, handing him a thick gold coin, "take this for the fare."

"C'mon we don' 'ave all day."

Harry stepped into the bus completely and grabbed onto a pole just time as the bus popped out of Little Whinging with a tremendous BANG that left him shaken as he clung even tighter to the pole.

"Now, where were we? Righ'. I am Stan Shunpike, your conductor tonight on board the Knight Bus. Standard fare is eleven sickles and you can get a hot chocolate for thirteen or a hot water bottle and a toothbrush for fifteen." Shunpike fell back into his accented speech after delivering his monologue, asking Harry, "So, what'll it be? Toofbrush, 'ot chocolate, or reg'lar?"

Harry blanked for a few moments, considering the weight of the coin in his hand and then proffered it to Stan, hoping that it would cover the costs. He sighed with relief when he got two slightly smaller silvers back and was offered a 'toofbrush', which he chose to be in green as he pocketed the change.

"So woss your name," Stan asked, peering at him curiously, "you're a bi' younger than mos' of our passengers, y'know?"

"D-Dursley – Dudley Dursley," Harry blurted out the first name that passed through his head.

"That's a weird name, y'know? So, where you goin'?"

"Diagon Alley." Harry considered Mrs. Figg's last words – if she had been watching him as a favor to Dumbledore, why had she let him go without really knowing where he was going? And for that matter, if she was supposed to keep him safe, why hadn't she stepped in all of those years ago, when the dynamic of the house had undergone such a change? Surely she should have noticed that the Dursleys were not letting him leave the house anymore or that he was doing chores from dawn to sundown on most days?

Another BANG from the Knight Bus placed them in the middle of the Lake Country, disrupting his thoughts as the doors opened for another passenger and he out the window, eager to see England for the first time, even if it was being shown to him in short spurts.

* * *

><p>Petunia darted out onto the lawn and looked around furiously for signs of her hated nephew.<p>

"BOY!"

The blinds of the second floor window of the house at 5 Privet Drive snapped back into place as Petunia realized that her nephew was gone for good and rushed back inside to tend to her husband.

* * *

><p>"Diagon Alley!" Stan announced to the crowded bus as it slammed to a stop in front of a small pub.<p>

Harry brought out a battered blue ski cap from his backpack and pulled it on over his hair and distinctive scar. He wouldn't make it too easy for Petunia or the police to find him, after all. Heaving his pack back on, he stepped off of the bus and into the pub that his mother had described so many times in her letters.

Somewhat out of place in the dingy pub, Harry tread cautiously between a pair of disputing witches, past a group of shabby gamblers sitting around a game of cards, and through a mess of working wizards heading to tend to their shops and popped up at the other side of the mob, next to the bar.

"Excuse me sir, could you help me get into Diagon Alley, please? I'm meeting with a friend of mine but I can't get in alone."

Tom looked up from the glasses that he had been drying and then back down again to see a small eight or nine year old boy wearing a blue cap and a dusty backpack peering up at him curiously. Sighing, he put down his rag and signaled to the boy.

Watching with bated breath as the man tapped on the bricks in an odd pattern, Harry could barely stifle the smile that was quirking up the corners of his mouth. He had found it! He was seconds away from experiencing the same wondrous street that had introduced his mother to the wizarding world! After seven long years of preparation and reading, he was finally able to follow his parents' footsteps.

As Tom had opened the alleyway up for the boy, he had felt the tension tangibly emanating from the kid and now, when Diagon Alley stood in full view, the boy was radiant. It was a reaction that he'd seen many times before, but not in people who had been in the Alley before. His story about a friend waiting for him had to be a lie then; no parent would ever abandon their child in a crowded and completely unknown street.

"What's your name, son?" He asked the boy, but by the time the first words had come out of his mouth, the boy had melted into the crowd that typically swarmed Diagon in the morning. He was short with broken glasses, black hair, and bright green eyes, he annotated in his mental notebook; if he hadn't known any better, he would have said that he had just met Harry Potter. But that was impossible; the boy was living with his relatives, wasn't he?

* * *

><p>Harry was having the time of his life. It was his first time in the magical world, his first time in London, and even his first time out of his neighborhood without his relatives, and he wholeheartedly agreed that their absence was the best thing that could have ever happened to him.<p>

He ran from shop window to window, staring at owls and toads, beetle eyes and salamander tails, brooms, wands, and he'd even caught a glimpse of robes in the oddest colors imaginable on display in one showcase that led him to question the sanity of the magical world. Not that it had any pretense of being exemplary in that particular field, of course.

Lost in his own world of delight after years of scrounging small favors and bits of culture off of the Dursleys, Harry didn't notice the looks that people were giving him and remained blissfully unaware until he heard something that made his blood run cold.

"Harry Potter!" A voice yelled from a nearby storefront, "Harry Potter Merchandise on sale!"

Retracing his steps, Harry stood shocked looking into the store window, staring dazedly at the lines of dolls arrayed in front of him. How… how was this possible? This infinitely worse than Mrs. Figg turning out to be a squib!

He narrowed his eyes at the miniature figures and the dolls stared right back at him without flinching.

Right there, near the front of the shop window, a row of innocently smiling dolls stood in open mockery of Harry. Their black hair, green eyes, and even the scar on his head – it was all his. Moving in for a closer look, he saw the sign underneath it: _Harry Potter dolls, as represented in the popular series of books._

He jumped back, startled, and reached up to tug his cap farther down over his hair. This brought the creepiness level of this world up quite a few notches by his calculations. They knew what he looked like and he'd barely ever set foot outside of Surrey! Well, maybe they didn't know what he really looked like, he thought as a particularly muscular '_Harry Potter'_ with blue eyes and brown hair caught his eye, but it was scary all the same.

He was going to find out what was going on as soon as he could by heading to the library to read those books and…. Wait. Books? Surely there was some level at which this stopped, he wondered, dumbly watching a little girl inside squealing as her mother bought her the muscular blue eyed Harry Potter.

If this was the case, he would have to hide his identity for as long as he could. If he was this famous when he had never stepped into the magical world, then how would people react when they learned that he was back? He would never have a moment's peace. If he could base most people's reactions off of the little girl he'd just seen, he wouldn't like to encounter her older counterparts' reaction when faced with the real item. He shuddered, turned away from the shop window, and now considerably calmer, continued down the street towards the large marble building of Gringotts, resolving all the while to get to the bookstore as soon as he could.

* * *

><p>"Sir, the boy has left."<p>

"Excellent, excellent. Would you like–"

"No thank you sir, I'll remain standing."

"Oh. That wasn't– Well then, make your report."

"The boy has connected with his core and left at 820 hours after using basic wandless magic on his uncle and cousin. He was headed towards Diagon Alley via the Knight Bus. His possessions include several books, notebooks, and some items of clothing. My assessment tells me that he is on guard and paranoid, leaving him highly open to manipulation from parties which he does not suspect."

"Good. He progresses. Maybe we chose the right one, then. We'll need to make contact as soon as possible."

"Yes sir."

* * *

><p>Harry left Gringotts in a rage. He had gone in and very politely asked to access his family's vault and had been scoffed at. It was no joking matter, he thought. He was, after all the only living Potter and as such it was within his rights to withdraw money from the accounts. The goblins had, after pulling him into a private room and forcing him to sit down, corrected him on that stance.<p>

Apparently, he was in fact the only living heir to the Potter fortune and was under his family name entitled to the money and artifacts stored in Gringotts' vault 114. However, as the goblin altogether too gleefully pointed out to Harry in the legal reference with a single hooked digit, he was not permitted access until his coming of age or the death or dismissal of his guardian by a panel of listed friends of the family. His guardian, however, had been Sirius Black, who was now in jail. His accounts in turn were managed by the one and only Albus Dumbledore.

At this news, Harry had launched himself with gusto into plotting ways in which to assassinate immensely popular and powerful political figures, opening up a completely new career path to him which he could have pursued in short order, changing his future completely. However, as he was halfway through a particularly complex plot involving a fishing pole, three cans of hot pink paint, some melted chocolate, a chess bishop, and a strawberry, he was most rudely shaken from his thoughts by a strident voice.

"Mr. Potter… Mr. Potter. Mr. Potter?"

"Mmmm? Oh! What did I miss?"

"As I was saying, you also have a trust vault for your school supplies which can be accessed on your eleventh birthday and contains three hundred galleons, to be renewed each summer."

"Great! Can I access it today?"

"No. You were not listening Mr. Potter. You are only ten at the moment and cannot be given permission to remove money from the trust vault yet."

At this point Harry, who was on the verge of face faulting, turned back to fabricating ridiculously convoluted plots in a way to relieve his stress.

* * *

><p>Regretfully, he had been hurriedly ushered out of Gringotts before he had the chance to break anything in the building. Storming out of Gringotts, Harry felt his anger dissipate and slowly sank into a sullen mood. Kicking at the ground, Harry felt lost for the first time since leaving Little Whinging. Without any money, he couldn't get any of the Hogwarts books, a trunk, or even any type of magical transportation. Even worse, if he couldn't find Selena Lovegood or another friend of his parents today, he wouldn't have any money to stay at a hotel.<p>

"Oof!" Harry fell on his back after colliding with someone coming in the opposite direction.

"I'm so sorry, sir. I was distracted and didn't see you coming," he hastily explained to a lamp post as he worked to clear his spinning head.

Looking up, he slowly turned bright red as he realized what he had done, only to hear a voice drifting beside him.

"You do know that this isn't a Straight-backed Aridian Swinge, right? It dislikes crowds, as a matter of fact, although you did address it appropriately and this lamp post does look like one."

Harry slowly turned his head to stare at a pair of psychedelic swirls in the place of eyes and a bright smile that extended a small hand to him. Cautiously grasping the hand, he got up, dusted his jeans, and looked up at his companion.

"It might have been the Wrackspurts, you know," the swirly-eyed creature ambled on conversationally, "I think you were being swarmed."

Harry frantically burrowed through his mind in search of a question to ask this girl, for he had at least ascertained that it was a girl he listening to, before he was dragged along further by this utterly bewildering conversation. Casting about fruitlessly, he asked lamely, "H-How can you see?"

"I'm practicing," she answered dreamily.

"P-practicing?"

"Daddy and I are going on a trip to Romania this summer to see if we can find evidence of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack colony in Eastern Europe. They've only been sighted in Sweden, but we think they live on the continent as well."

"But – practicing?"

"They're almost invisible, you know? I've been going without sight for a week and a half now," she elucidated, taking off the swirl-patterned glasses to reveal a pair of clear blue eyes that didn't quite seem to be looking at him, but rather a bit over his shoulder as the girl blinked repeatedly against the sudden light.

It was at this point that Harry finally realized that the girl in front of him was quite different from most witches and wizards. He didn't have a standard yet, having never met one personally, but he had a feeling that this one would turn out to be slightly dottier than the average, even if most witches and wizards. He didn't have a standard yet, having never met one personally, but he had a feeling that this one would turn out to be slightly dottier than the average. Then again, he wasn't sure if he could judge the magical world yet, bright purple and yellow robes seemed to be fashionable for men, if the store that he had seen earlier could be trusted.

"I'm Luna, by the way."

"I'm Harry, nice to meet you."

"Good. You can be my new boy friend."

Harry stared at his new acquaintance in shock.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, one very disoriented Harry Potter was sitting down in the terrace of Florian Fortescue's drinking a glass of cooled pumpkin juice and listening to Luna explain what Crumple-Horned Snorkacks were.<p>

"… and the first sighting was in 1873 in northern Sweden, and then Newt Scamander saw one near Uppsala in 1934, but he didn't put it in his books because everyone thought that it was a newly fleeced ram. Daddy and I are going to be the first ones to document its existence," she said with a tinge of pride.

"Wow, I didn't know all of these creatures existed. I need to find a book on magical beasts. Do dragons exist too?"

"Yes, of course dragons exist," Luna answered in a far-off voice, stirring her melted mint and cherry ice cream with a coffee spoon, "they're like Blibbering Humdingers, only bigger."

"Oh." Harry found himself at a loss for words, trying to imagine tiny dragons buzzing around and not completely picturing the Humdingers as Luna had said that dragons looked like Humdingers, and not that Humdingers looked like dragons. Altogether it was rather confusing to him, and he broke off the mental image.

"Did you find what you were looking for in Diagon Alley, Harry Potter?" Luna asked with what oddly enough seemed to be a hidden glint in her eyes.

"Potter?" Harry almost fell backwards off of his chair, but recovering, pulled himself closer to her, leaning over the table and hissing in a whisper, "How do you know my name?"

"You have a very nice forehead," Luna commented, smiling pensively.

"I— I saw the dolls… Why—How—What did I do to deserve that?"

"Nothing," she commented, continuing her thoughtful and faraway smile, "but you still have a nice forehead."

"My forehead has nothing to do with this," Harry whispered furiously, "I know that you know what everyone else knows that I don't know and would like to know now. Please?"

"It's really a pity your hat covers it," she continued dreamily, ignoring his questioning. Then, in an unexpected movement, she swiftly dropped the coffee spoon, reached over, and pulled off his hat, leaving his forehead and scar in the open.

"Hey! Give that back!" Harry yelled angrily at Luna as she put the hat on her hand and started to move it around as if it were sock puppet, miming a conversation between them. She handed it back to him, but not before several pairs of eyes had fixed on Harry after his outburst and the murmuring had started.

"Is that—"

"Could it really be—"

"Harry Potter?"

At these two words, everyone on the street seemed to stop and, as a hush fell over the passersby, stare at the speaker and then at Harry himself.

"Oh no," Harry moaned softly, "I didn't think that it would be this bad." Quickly getting to his feet, he pulled on his cap, grabbed a slightly dazed Luna by the arm and, gently pulling her up, began walking briskly down the alley.

Once they had gotten around the corner and away from the sight of the still astounded bystanders, he turned to Luna and told her seriously, "Don't do that again."

"It was fun, watching all of those Wrackspurts gather, though," she said, looking vaguely over his shoulder, presumably to see if anyone had followed them down the street.

"So why does everyone know my name?"

"No one really knows what happened," she said, avoiding the question with a bright smile.

"Fine," Harry sighed, looking around at the alley in mock defeat, "I'm here because I'm looking for Selena Lovegood, but I don't know if you've heard abo—."

"She's dead." The answer was shot back at him, cutting off his question abruptly.

Harry snapped his wandering gaze back to Luna's and was startled to see a harsh and steely set of eyes staring him down where the colorful swirls and dazed blue eyes had been before.

"My mother was killed a few weeks ago."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>And there you have it. Please review if you liked it. At the moment I have nothing in particular to say, but that I will probably be posting chapter 4 sometime next week.


End file.
